


BC Noir and the Mystery of the Appearing Banner

by chicagotime



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: BC Noir - Freeform, Comedy i guess?, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicagotime/pseuds/chicagotime
Summary: The BC Noir Detective Agency find a suspicious item in their office! Where did it come from? Where will they go? Read the fic and maybe you’ll find out?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. The Beginning, Or: Character Introduction Section

It’s a cold, rainy day in Noirville, just like every other day in that week. And month. And year. The powder grey rain bounces off black umbrellas carried by monochrome people living colourful lives, and trickles down tarmac roads and cobblestone lanes before arriving at the BC Noir Detective Agency, a small building coated in rain and grease. Inside this building, there is an office, inside which we see a man of dark liquid in a suit that is bone dry and an amalgamation of floating white and light grey globules contained in a trenchcoat. Both are wearing fedoras with comically wide brims. They stare at a banner above them that gleefully proclaims ‘THIS CITY IS MONOCHROME! THAT’S THE GIMMICK!’ like the narrative equivalent of a hammer to the head. 

“Hey, Plasma?”

The globules rotate towards the real person in the room with a heavy 1950s gangster accent. YEAH?, says a voice that seems to bypass air and implant itself directly in liquid’s, and our, minds.

“Did you put this banner up?”

Some of the white orbs rearrange themselves to form the shape of a question mark, and more spheres in the coat sleeve rise above the collar, where they pensively rub the air. HMMMM… CAN’T SAY I DID… 

An exclamation mark appears where the question mark once hovered. WHY, LIQUID? DO YOU THINK THERE IS SOMETHNG TO THIS?

The man takes a cigarette out of his suit and places it in his mouth. It immediately falls through his lips and lands on the floor. “Well, hold on now. We need to make sure this isn’t one of those Fake Mysteries.” He picks the cigarette back up, lights it, and places it back in his mouth, lit end pointing the way it isn’t supposed to point. It goes out and falls to the floor, staining the carpet with more liquid. He stares at the cigarette with the burning hatred of at least five suns. Maybe six. “Do you have The List?”

The globules bob a little, in a motion we can only assume means yes. A single sphere floats out of the trenchcoat, onto the office desk, and bursts, revealing a notepad that’s much larger than the bubble was. The first page is covered in writing that sprawls across the page, with ‘THE LIST’ written boldly at the top. YES. ALRIGHT, LET’S SEE HERE… NUMBER ONE: DID WE LOSE THE KEYS AGAIN?

They look at the coat hooks next to the door. We look at the coat hooks next to the door. The coat hooks are next to the door. The keys are there. On the coat hooks. Next to the door. They look at the banner. It’s still there. They did not lose the keys. 

“Well,” they say simultaneously, “we didn’t lose the keys.”

Plasma looks back at the notepad. NUMBER TWO: WAS THIS JUST ANOTHER PRANK FROM THOSE NO-GOOD BLANC BOYS FROM ACROSS THE STREET?

Liquid sighs. “Nah, this ain’t their MO. We’d be creamed six ways from Sunday if this was one of their dastardly plans.” Both stare broodingly into the distance. Those Blanc boys… always meddling in their detective work… hrnghhhhh………..

With a few quick shakes of the head/several conjoined spheres, they snap out of their deeply deep and contemplative thoughts. Plasma turns back to THE LIST. NUMBER THREE: IS EVERYTHING MERELY A CONSTRUCT? A FIGMENT OF SOMEONE ELSE’S IMAGINATION? IS THERE REALLY A MYSTERY? A ME? A YOU? AN US? AN ANYTHING? HOW CAN WE SOLVE WHAT CANNOT, SHOULD NOT, AND DOES NOT EXIST?

They turn towards the camera and, by extension, towards us. We feel a slight sense of discomfort as what could be their faces are facing us, but they seem to be looking at something behind us, something we cannot see. Surely we must turn behind us to see what they see? To know what they know? It can’t be a wall, there has to be something, anything, that’s capturing their attention, drawing them in so deeply. So, so much time has passed, and they’re still staring at the wall. we’re beyond the point where we shuffle anxiously in our seats, and are now struggling to keep our eyes ahead. What happens to those that look back? Those lost souls that were once like you and I? Are we brave enough to find out?

“Y’know Plasma, we really need to stop letting you add existential questions to every THE LIST we make. It really sucks up our time.”

MY APOLOGIES, LIQUID. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN THEY MAY BECOME IMPORTANT.

“Yeah, well, we’ll get it right next time.” He turns away from the wall and slaps his hands together, spraying droplets of liquid everywhere. “What’s next on THE LIST?”

The white globules form an incomprehensible shape that looks the way regret feels. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT ON THE LIST.

“Well! Looks like we’ve got a mystery on our hands! Let’s see what our landlady thinks about all this, shall we?” And with that, Liquid walks over to the coat hooks, puts on his trenchcoat, and leaves the office, leaving the door open. Plasma quickly scuttles behind him, despite not having any legs, and closes the door softly after leaving.


	2. Part 2, Or: Things Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interrogation occurs!

It’s still cold, still raining, still Noirville. We see a bird’s-eye view of the city, a sprawling mass of dark with hints of light, like a black cat that decided to take a nap in glitter. We zoom in, jagged roads and straightened buildings becoming clearer and clearer. But soon, you start to realise that nothing in this town makes sense. The streets look like a flat MC Escher painting if Escher really liked corner shops and harbours, there seems to be copious amounts of fog but no factory they could come from, and vehicles seem to appear and disappear at their own leisure, slipping in and out of the fog like the rogue elements they are.

The camera levels out before it can crash against the ground, preventing our very likely demise, and quickly traverses several streets, taking several sharp turns as it goes. We see several glimpses of stories we could have followed, had these cowardly souls been Chosen: two floating trench coats suspiciously head into a brightly lit alley, a fight between women of ice and fire breaks out in front of an apartment building, and a man gets halfway through an ‘AWOOGA’ (eyes pop out jaw lands on floor tongue rolls out heart jumps out of chest work whistle appears and makes noise) before he’s hit by a train.

We keep going, dodging and weaving and Lightning McQueening through this city, until we see two protagonists walk down the street, and enter a nondescript apartment building, seemingly with no regard for other people’s property or business at all! But they’re detectives, so it’s okay, right? Yeah. It’s fine.

These two protagonists, these stars of the show, these core features of this narrative, enter this building. It looks exactly like their own building (the budget for debt design was incredibly low to begin with,and basically ran out when they reached this place, so they just copy-pasted an entire building and called it a day) except for an extremely old and beautiful woman that stands in the corner of the entrance room, leaning against the wall, and smoking an extremely long cigarette that Audrey Hepburn would kill to get her hands on. Her silver hair glints in the moonlight that may or may not be present, and her sequined dress also glints, but not as well, for the dress can _never_ outshine the wearer.

“Hey there boys,” she says with a voice that would give urchins a bottle of fish oil and tell them it’s whiskey, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen you round these parts. Got any rent money for me?”

Ah. The rent. If these detectives were capable of making complex facial expressions, they’d show outright shame. Instead, they dejectedly turn out all 40 pockets of their clothing. At least 10 flies emerge, but no money.

“Uhh…” says Liquid, “I regret to inform you that... we seem to be unable to provide you with the cash you deserve… O Landlady.” He tries to curtsy, which is hard to do in a suit with pockets sticking out. Plasma, a being with no discernible legs, opts to bow instead.

The Landlady waves a hand with the dismissiveness of someone who knows they’ll never be paid. “Forget about it. I know you guys never charge your clients.” She stares wistfully into the distance for a moment, possibly taking this time to regret renting to these two goofuses. this pair of goofusi, before rejoining the conversation. “So what brings you two here, if not to pay me?”

Plasma’s white globules form a magnifying glass. WE ARE HERE TO INVESTIGATE A MYSTERY. WE BELIEVE YOU TO BE A PRIME SUSPECT. YOU WILL NOW BE INTERROGATED. PLEASE STAND BY WHILE I PREPARE THE INTERROGATION SEQUENCE. BEEP. BOOP. BEEP - 

Liquid frantically places a hand on Plasma’s shoulder. “Plasma, baby, remember what we talked about. What do we do before interrogation?”

The globules that could be a head retreat slightly into the trenchcoat. WE ASK FOR CONSENT.

“Good! How about we try that again?” He tries to wince slightly in apology at the Landlady, who winks in acknowledgement. It’s not always easy to corral spheres to do detective things.

SIGH. GOOD EVENING MADAM. WE ARE CURRENTLY CONDUCTING AN INVESTIGATION OF GREAT IMPORTANCE, AND REQUIRE YOUR COOPERATION. DO YOU CONSENT TO AN INVESTIGATION?

The Landlady gives Plasma a warm smile. “Of course I do. Fire away.”

YES. THIS IS GOOD. The spheres perk up a little. One of them explodes, revealing a set of flashcards that move away from the body. White globules rearrange themselves to form reading glasses. AHEM. YOU COMMA OPEN SQUARE BRACKET INSERT NAME OF SUSPECT HERE CLOSED SQUARE BRACKET WILL NOW BE INTERROGATED FULL STOP. FIRST QUESTION COLON ESTABLISH ALIBI FULL STOP. E FULL STOP G FULL STOP WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THE EVENT OCCURRED QUESTION MARK.

A moment passes as the Landlady tries to parse whatever Plasma was trying to say(?). “Well I’m not sure which event you’re referring to, but I _do_ know that I’ve been in here all day waiting for some freeloading residents to pay their rent.” Liquid facepalms.

HMM. THIS IS MOST SUSPICIOUS, AS THERE IS NO DAY IN NOIRVILLE, ONLY NIGHT. Liquid quickly whispers to them. AH. IT SEEMS THAT WAS AN… EXPRESSION. I DO APOLOGISE. The Landlady starts to open her mouth - WE WILL NOW CONTINUE WITH THE INTERROGATION THAT YOU HAVE CONSENTED TO. QUESTION TWO COLON POKE HOLES IN ALIBI FULL STOP E FULL STOP G FULL STOP ARE YOU SURE THAT IS WHAT HAPPENED QUESTION MARK. 

“Yes I’m sure.”

ALRIGHT. A frantic shuffling of cards occurs. THIS CONCLUDES THE INVESTIGATION FULL STOP WE HERE AT BC NOIR THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION FULL STOP. The globules turn to Liquid. WAS THE INVESTIGATION SUCCESSFUL?

The facepalm becomes a very convincing grin. “Of course you did, Plasma. That was your finest attempt yet in my most humble opinion.” He turns to the Landlady, who is silently clapping. “So you’ve been here all day, eh? Seen anyone carrying a banner around?”

The beautiful woman shakes her head, hair shifting in impossibly elegant ways. “I’m afraid not. Good luck with the mystery though, I’m sure it’s a real puzzler.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette and blows smoke rings towards the door as a sign that maybe they should leave, as if she is an NPC that has run out of dialogue options.

Thankfully, our sharp protagonists pick up this subtle sign, bow and curtsy respectfully, and leave. We see them walk out into the street, turn right, and stroll pleasantly into the obviously ominous mist. They look like they know what they’re doing, but we know they don’t. Anyway, they’ll probably be fine, right?


End file.
